


helplessness blues

by coffeecrowns



Series: bones in the ocean [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Accidental Engagement, Canon Disabled Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disordered Eating, Food, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecrowns/pseuds/coffeecrowns
Summary: The most frustrating part of post mission quarantining is watching Wilde struggle and not being able to help.
Relationships: Commander James Barnes & Howard Carter & Oscar Wilde & Zolf Smith, Commander James Barnes & Howard Carter (Rusty Quill Gaming), Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Series: bones in the ocean [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946710
Comments: 21
Kudos: 83





	helplessness blues

**Author's Note:**

> Alright!! 
> 
> This fic is part of a series, but you do not have to read it in order or other fics at all. All you gotta know is Wilde (unknowingly) proposed to Zolf with the beard ring, and Zolf hasn't told him. 
> 
> That said, I want to draw attention to a few of the heavier tags so you know what you're getting into. 
> 
> suicidal thoughts and ptsd:  
> \- bad things have happened and keep happening to wilde (and everyone else) none of them are onscreen, but consequences are  
> \- while sleep deprived, wilde considers his options if zolf/barnes/carter are all infected, and they are not great
> 
> disordered eating  
> \- wilde's food issues are primarily around stress and forgetting to eat, and not based in ed mindsets  
> \- that said, this fic has major themes of food and control, and that could be triggering in some readers. pls be safe 
> 
> otherwise, thank you for reading this, and shout out to everyone in when in rome for eye emojing me through this

Oscar doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He’s been awake for far too long. Two floors down, his only friends, his team, the people he keeps safe- are in a locked cell together. He can imagine what they look like, Zolf, without his mechanical legs, reading, Barnes and Carter drinking the booze he knows they keep down there. If that is them. 

Only a part of his brain, the part of his brain that has kept him awake for two days now, insists they’re already gone. He’s missing something, there’s a new sign he hasn’t thought to check for. He wants to see them, trace every inch of their bodies for blue veins. He wants to never see them again. They’re going to hurt him, and he’s going to let them. No. He might be scared, but he has a duty. He will kill them if they’ve turned. If whatever hope he has dies with them, well, he has potions to ensure it won’t be slow. If he’s already picked out a spot overlooking the sea to take his last breaths, well, that’s his business. 

(When he closes his eyes, can picture sitting there with Zolf, quietly with tea and watching the morning fog roll in. He made the dwarf blush and grumble comparing Zolf’s eyes to the beautiful blue expanse. He stands by it.) 

It feels like a betrayal to be afraid. They’re on day six of quarantine. It’s mostly a formality at this point. But the scar on his face aches, and he wants to run as far as he can. He can’t let this  _ thing  _ use his loved ones against him. Not again. Not when Barnes shy smile, Carter’s clever eyes, and Zolf’s hands are the only thing that keep him steady. Not when they’re all he has left. 

His eyes ache with how dry they are, from staring at notes he’s read over and over again. As if there will be answers now, of all times. He can’t do this. 

It’s close enough to a meal time, even if he isn’t sure on which one. 

Wilde looks like shit. Zolf’s in love with the man: he’s allowed to say it. Wilde clearly hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly, possibly for the entire mission, but definitely for the last six days of quarantine. He wants to smack the man, but it’s not helpful when Wilde will agree he deserves it. There’s nothing he can say. 

A few missions back, the last time Wilde was doing this poorly, Zolf tried everything he could to convince the man to take better care of himself. Something about the persistence in his voice sent Wilde into a full panic attack - which Zolf only found out weeks about after the fact, when Wilde could finally trust him again. So they all agreed it was better to follow the script, to let Wilde do whatever he needed to get through the week. Only now, the script is breaking down, Wilde is breaking down, and they don’t have any new plans. 

If he has to add a mourning bead for Oscar before he explains to the man what the ring on his beard means, well, actually, that would be on par for the rest of his life. Stil, it's going to piss him off. 

It’s about two in the morning, and they’re in the last twelve hours or so before Wilde can clear them. Carter is a bit drunker than Zolf fully appreciates, but he’s mostly draping himself over Barnes, who will absentmindedly stroke Carter’s hair like a good luck charm between hands. Zolf is losing consistently, so he might be onto something. He shivers once, marking the pattern that always happens before they’ll end up curled together as they sleep. 

Even though they’ve spent many nights like this, a single candle, a deck of cards, minimal words, it’s empty without Oscar. Even more so when they wake up without the man, or worse, when he stands on the other side of the bars with a hard distance in his eyes. 

Of course, things could never be that simple. Not when Oscar comes down the stairs and approaches the cell with a spread of food. Zolf isn’t exactly sure what meal the man thinks he’s providing, between cold fish from the icebox, freshly cooked rice, several of the local variety of pears, and green tea. Zolf and Carter exchange a look. 

“What time is it, Wilde?” Zolf calls out, not sure the man knows. Sure enough, Wilde casts his eyes across the cell, the empty bottle of sake, Carter dozing off in Barnes lap, Zolf’s unreadable face. 

“Breakfast?” Wilde asks, more unsure than he’s sounded in ages. The look on his face would have been funny if the canvas wasn’t so obviously worn. Zolf’s heart aches. 

“Sure,” Barnes cuts in, and it's nice to let him try to take the lead. “Get a good sleep last night?” 

“As well as you lot seemed to,” Wilde goes for a smirk, but it doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. All it really does it show how gaunt he’s become. Barnes exchanges a worried glance with Zolf that Wilde doesn’t even manage to track. 

“Sit, Wilde,” Zolf tries, but it comes out more gruff than he means. He’s worried, and that turns him into an arse when he’s not careful. He doesn’t know how to be gentle with Oscar when they find themselves here, Oscar closed off and hurting, and Zolf literally trapped behind bars. 

“I’ve got work to do,” Wilde says, placing the tray down in the passage between bars. 

“Fine,” Zolf says, knowing there’s nothing he can do right now, as useless as it makes him feel. “See you in twelve hours.” 

Wilde turns around, but not before Zolf sees him mouthing “Twelve hours,” to himself, a promise of sorts. He hopes it will be enough. 

Wilde drags himself to the kitchen table. It’s not because he wants to be there, or because he’s interested in eating, he just doesn’t see the point in dragging himself up more stairs to look at pages he’s memorized and walls that make him want to tear his hair out. 

He manages some tea, which is warm all the way down his throat. He can’t taste it, but he does load it with honey. He’s trying. He’s really trying. 

It helps to see them, to see them acting normally. No infected he’s seen acts like Carter. The infected don’t have it in them to fake things like Zolf’s tone or Barnes’s patient stare. He’s only been caught off guard once, and he won’t make that mistake again. He brews more tea. 

Hours pass. He sits, he paces the kitchen, he brings them more food, but they are asleep, curled together in a pile. It’s so familiar, a part of some of his best memories since everything fell apart. He knows what it feels like to be nestled in with them, warm and protected. It doesn’t even feel like he’s protecting them anymore, not when he can’t even take care of himself. He doesn’t want to be like this, but he can’t tear his eyes away from them. He just stands and watches until his vision blurs. 

Eventually, he manages to take a deep breath and pull himself out of the basement. He boils the water for baths. He oils Zolf’s legs, with the hope they won’t be too stiff. He comes down a third time for the final inspection. He studies the long planes of their bodies, the familiar tattoos. He admires Zolf’s strong body and soft stomach, Carter’s angles and bony joints, Barnes stable medium, like a man on the helm. Relief floods through him, and he lets the love he fills simmer over and propel him towards the cell door. They’re still in various states of undress, not that it matters when both them and their clothes are dirty and heading for the wash. Oscar does not care. He holds them all. Then he remembers he’s been their jailer, and lets off. 

“Don’t let the water get cold,” he says, and wanders off, ignoring whatever noises of protest they manage to string together. 

Zolf can’t even enjoy the bath, not really. Not with the memory of how Oscar was trembling in his arms. He washes, and it feels good, but it doesn’t touch the worry in his chest. He dresses, and Oscar isn’t anywhere to be found. Zolf knows how the man gets when he’s like this. He puts together a broth, and gathers the fruits Oscar is fond of, and cuts them up. Food in hand, he goes up to Oscar’s room. 

The man is sitting at his desk, and if he didn’t know better, Zolf would say he was working. Fortunately, Zolf knows better.

“Alright, Oscar,” he says, softly, because he doesn’t know where his head is at. Oscar startles, but doesn’t flinch, and Zolf wants to hurt everyone he knows has mistreated Oscar Wilde. 

“Zolf, didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon-”

“Cut the shit Wilde, you look terrible.”

“Mr. Smith, I never-”

“Please don’t Mr. Smith me. Gods, I’m worried about you.” His voice breaks, and it’s the kind of honesty he doesn’t know how to feel about, and he’s desperate enough to barely register how it sounds like he’s begging. 

“I’m really tired, Zolf.” Oscar says, and Zolf’s heart breaks watching the tears start to fall. 

“I know love,” he says, clearing two paces between them and wrapping his arms around his human. “It’s alright.” Oscar cries silently, which is a trait Zolf worries about the origin of, but he can feel Oscars sobs against his chest. He can finally touch the man, and it never used to be like this, but that was when the only thing stopping Zolf from reaching out was himself. 

When Wilde pulls away, wiping his eyes on his sleeves, Zolf hands him the mug of broth. 

“Drink, you’ll feel better.” 

Oscar doesn’t even try to argue, now that his exhaustion is obvious to them both. He drinks carefully, eyes closing gently as he takes in the light flavour. Zolf breathes a little easier. Oscar puts the mug down when he’s finished. 

“Come to bed,” He just offers Oscar a hand, and it says a lot that the man takes it without hesitation. They walk to the other room, to the bed they share most nights. Zolf’s missed the sight of it. He situatates himself, the tray of fruits, and Oscar leaning against him between his legs. 

“Good?” he asks. Oscar just nods against his chest. “Will you eat some more for me?” The man in his arms hesitates, and Zolf can feel how tightly Oscar is holding him. 

“Stop me if this is too weird,” he says, and holds a slice of peach just in front of Oscar's lips. For a long moment, he worries he’s overstepped, that Wilde has finally registered the pet name slipping through, and is uncomfortable. Zolf has ruined everything, again, and he only has himself to blame.

And then, he feels Oscars dry lips on his fingers. The weight of the peach is gone, replaced by Wilde’s tongue licking at the remaining juice. 

Right then. 

So Zolf alternates between the slices of peach and pear, and Oscar eats them quietly. It should feel more odd than it does. They manage to fall into an easy rhythm, together, like anything else they do together. But Wilde is relaxed against him, and letting himself be taken care of for once. And Zolf is self aware enough to admit there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to guarantee that, especially something as nice as this. 

Oscar manages to eat the whole plate Zolf brought up. On the last slice, pear, this time around, Zolf mutters, “That’s the last one.” Oscar takes it in his skilled mouth, savours it longer than pieces past, and kisses Zolf’s fingers, gently, but after feeding the man for half an hour, Zolf is familiar with the differences between his lips and tongue. 

“Thank you,” Oscar mutters softly. 

“Anytime,” Zolf replies, realizing he means it. “Get some rest, Oscar. Everyone is safe now.” 

Oscar sighs, and curls in tighter and Zolf is pretty sure he’ll be stuck with the man attached to him for the next several hours. He can’t bring himself to complain. And once Wilde’s breathes even out, he runs his hand through his hair, pulls the covers over them both, and decides a nap never hurt anyone. 

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading this. i love these two and i have so much to say


End file.
